Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
A noise escapes my throat. A soft murmur. Thank god the door is closed since I’m turned on as the late-night reel plays in my head for the thousandth time. I close my eyes, relaxing against the back of the chair, picturing the things he did to me all over again.
Seeing, too, what he might do to me in these.
Such a dangerous thought.
Something I can’t entertain except in my mind. But here, in the afternoon with my eyes closed, I entertain the hell out of the fantasy. Breathing in deeply, then out, savoring the naughty moments unfurling before my closed eyes.
“Yoo-hoo.”
I sit bolt upright. It’s Elias in promotions, and he’s rapping on the door. Fear of getting caught fondling a lingerie gift roars down my spine. Hastily I shout “come in” right as he helps himself, swinging the door open. I stuff both pairs of panties back in the envelope like they’re contraband and he’s border control.
Fresh-faced Elias is smiling because of course he’s smiling. Everything goes his way all the time. His gaze drifts to the bag. “Ooh, a fun little gift?”
How the hell does he know it’s a gift? Does he even know what it is? “Yes. I mean, it’s a shirt. The wrong size. It happens.” I wave a hand like this is all no big deal. Then grab my latte and gulp some–that makes my casual routine more believable. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
“I hear ya,” he says with a solidarity nod. “Like, how hard is it to get a size right?”
“Seriously,” I say, trying to mask my breathiness, trying to hide the furious beating of my pulse, and hoping I’m not red-faced anymore. “So, what can I do for you?”
“Just wanted to talk about…” He pauses, wait for it style, then booms shockingly on key, “Who let the dogs out?”
It takes me a beat to catch up. “Right. The dog rescue event next week.”
“It’s going to be great. We used to do those sorts of promos when I played in college,” he says in a reminiscing tone, and it only took less than one minute for him to remind me he played college hockey. What I really want to say is did you do those events? Because I really don’t think adoption events are done for college hockey. But there’s no point in calling him on it. I wait for him to keep going and he does, asking, “And you talked to my contacts at Little Friends, right?”
Um, he’s not the only one who has contacts at the city’s rescue. I know people there too, and I contacted them. But I don’t want to be an asshole, so I say, “Yes, I spoke to Little Friends, and everything’s all set for the dog adoption event. Thanks for checking in.”
“Sweet. Just want to make sure everything’s good to go. And I paved the path for Donna to be there.”
Hold on. I don’t need the emcee. It’s not an in-game fan experience event. It’s community outreach. An adoption event we’re hosting. “I’m actually going to have some of the players do that. Since, well, they’re the draw.”
His face falls. “Shoot. Donna loves that stuff especially. Big dog person.”
I take a moment to think things over. “I’m sure we can make room for everyone,” I say diplomatically, solving the problem with a the-more-the-merrier approach.
“Cool. I’d feel like a jerk if I told her not to come,” he says, then turns to the door.
Leave, Elias, leave. I need to ogle my pretties some more.
But instead, he swings his gaze back to me again. “Hey, I wanted to give you a heads-up. I’m applying for the director job too. But I’m totally not going to get it. You have way more experience—on the desk,” he says, a subtle dig that I don’t have on-ice experience. “But I figured hey, how am I going to get experience applying for a promotion if I don’t apply for one?”
Great. The general counsel’s nephew is applying for the job I want. That doesn’t hurt my chances at all.
“That’s fantastic,” I say, and it nearly sounds like I mean it.
He raps his knuckles on the wall for luck. “May the best…” He stops himself from saying man, shifting to, “human win.”
“Absolutely,” I say.
But before he leaves, his eyes drift to the package on my desk. “Enjoy your gift.”
Oh fuck off, Elias.
He leaves. Finally. I grab the package from my desk, do my damnedest to fold it in half, then quarters, and stuff it into my purse. It’s not easy. It takes up all the space and makes my purse bulge.
But I’m pissed and annoyed. I’ve worked so hard for this chance. I show up day in and day out. I travel with the team to a good chunk of their away games. I work late hours. I handle tough questions from the press. And I present the team and the players in the best possible light. Why is he even applying? He manages the in-game fan experience, not publicity.